Page 11 of Ranger's Code

I don’t approach. Not yet. I simply memorize the plate—four characters, Texas plates, two letters off from a freight company I’ve flagged before. The man’s face—middle-aged, scruffy beard, tension coiled in the shoulders. The van—a beat-up blue Econoline with a busted taillight and no visible registration stickers. I log it all with the precision of a sniper lining up a target. I’ll dig deeper later, but now I have a trail—and that’s enough to start the hunt.

Back at the bakery, Maggie is already inside, sleeves rolled up, apron tied, boss energy crackling. She moves like the kitchen obeys her, like every bowl, timer, and tray knows exactly who’s in charge. The sight should make me feel like an outsider, like a distraction. But instead, it centers me. Watching her in her element—flour-dusted, focused, fierce—settles something low and restless in my chest. It’s more than admiration. It’s magnetism. Like my wolf knows the exact shape of her presence and leans into it without permission.

But the moment peace even dares to settle in my bones, the squeal of brakes out front shatters it. The delivery truck rolls to a stop like it owns the sidewalk, exhaling diesel and impatience. It’s not just the timing that bothers me—it’s the shift in air pressure, the subtle clench in my gut, the way Maggie's shoulders tense before she even looks. Instinct screams before logic can catch up. The delivery has arrived, and so has trouble.

I watch the exchange unfold with narrowed eyes. The man dropping off the order doesn’t make eye contact, as if a direct gaze might burn him. He mutters something under his breath—too low for me to catch, but enough to make Maggie's posture tighten. His hands are twitchy, fumbling with the clipboard like it might bite. He gives her a half-crumpled invoice; its corners are greasy and torn, as if it’s been repeatedly shoved in and out of a glove compartment. Sloppy. Rushed. Wrong.

Maggie accepts it, her fingers tightening slightly on the clipboard the moment it touches her hand. Her brow furrows almost instantly, lips pressing into a thin line as her eyes scan the page. The numbers don’t add up. Again. Her shoulders rise with tension, and she exhales slowly through her nose, the way someone does when they’re trying not to snap—but are damn close to it.

I step forward. "Mind if I take a look?"

She shoots me a look over her shoulder, part irritation, part warning. The kind of look that usually means she’s about to bite back with words sharp enough to slice. But instead, her fingers loosen, and she hands it over. Silent surrender. Or maybe just exhaustion. Either way, it surprises us both.

I scan it quickly. Wrong product. Wrong weight. Again. "This isn’t what she ordered."

The driver shrugs. "It's what’s on the sheet."

"Then the sheet’s wrong."

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. My tone is ice-calm and razor-sharp, the kind of voice honed from giving orders in hostile terrain. It isn’t loud, but it carries weight—the kind that makes people rethink their life choices. The driver fidgets, suddenly unsure of his footing. The bakery staff, mid-motion, stills like prey scenting a predator. The silence isn’t empty. It pulses with warning.

"I’ll look into it," the man mutters and disappears fast.

Maggie sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Don’t interrogate my suppliers in front of customers."

"I didn't. Do you want people to cheat you? Do you think your customers want you to get cheated? Either the suppliers you have start fulfilling their obligations to you or you get new suppliers," I say calmly, handing her back the clipboard.

She doesn’t argue. Her jaw flexes, and she opens her mouth like she might, but the fight in her seems to sag under the weight of everything she’s been holding together. The clipboard stays in her hand, her fingers white-knuckling the edge. Her face reveals frustration, fatigue, and the grudging sting of knowing I’m right. She hates that this keeps happening. Hates even more that she can’t stop it alone.

Later, when the afternoon lull dips into the pre-evening rush, I step outside again—not just to get fresh air, but because something itches beneath my skin. The kind of itch that tells me danger hasn’t passed, only circled wider. I scan the alley and the back lot, mentally clocking angles, shadows, and line of sight. This isn’t just recon anymore. This is territory. Not long before I spot one of the drivers—same company as earlier—heading for the alley with a crate.

I catch him just before he reaches the back entrance, stepping into the man’s path with silent precision. No raised voice. No visible aggression. Just presence—unmistakable and immovable. The driver nearly collides with me, startled enough to suck in a breath and stumble back a step. I don’t move. I just stare, unreadable and calm, the stillness of a wolf waiting to pounce if provoked.

"Hey," I say smoothly. "Got a second?"

The man startles, nearly drops the crate. "Just making a delivery."

"Sure. Before you do, mind answering a couple of questions?"

I don’t threaten. Don’t even square up. Just stand there, relaxed and steady, gaze fixed like a laser sight. That kind of stillness isn’t passive—it’s power held in check, and everyone with a guilty conscience recognizes it on sight. It’s the look of a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice or throw a punch to make you wish you’d never crossed him.

The man adjusts his stance. Looks away. "I just drop the boxes, man. I don’t handle orders."

"Except your paperwork doesn’t match the product. And your route changed yesterday. You weren’t supposed to be here."

That makes him flinch. Not a big movement, just a twitch—a flicker of guilt, or fear, or maybe both. His eyes dart to the side like a man looking for exits, not answers. And that’s enough. I’ve seen that reaction too many times in interrogation rooms to mistake it for anything else. The guy isn’t clean.

I lean in just enough. Not touching. Not aggressive. Just closer—close enough to crowd the driver’s breath, to make every inch of personal space evaporate. My eyes never waver, steady and unreadable, a silent dare embedded in the space between us. It isn’t physical intimidation—it’s the kind of still, coiled presence that makes a man question everything he thought he knew about courage.

"You working under someone new?"

The man shakes his head too fast. "I don’t know anything. I swear."

He bolts before I can press further, stumbling in his haste like prey breaking from cover. The sound of his retreating footsteps echoes down the alley, uneven and panicked. I don’t follow. I don’t need to. The man’s reaction paints a clear enough picture—nervous, defensive, and clearly coached not to answer questions. Whatever is going on, that guy isn’t just a delivery man. And now I have his scent.

Back inside, the rush slams into us hard and fast—customers lined up, orders piling up. I step in without being asked. Grab trays, refill displays, man the register with a quick study of the POS system like I’ve been doing it for months. I move like I belong there, not as a guest, not as a shadow, but as someone who understands pressure and refuses to flinch from it. Maggie doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t need to. But something in the way her eyes flick to me—brief, unreadable, almost... grateful—says more than words. She doesn’t glare either. And that? That feels like progress.

We move together in sync. Not perfect. Not polished. But there’s a rhythm, a pulse to it, like the kitchen has found its second breath and I’m part of it. We’re not speaking much—just passing trays, exchanging glances, reacting to the needs of the rush like dancers who’ve trained for years. And for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m tagging along behind someone else’s mission. I feel integrated. Useful. Like I belong in her chaos and can carry some of the weight she tries so hard to shoulder alone.

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